


Lovers To Lovers

by HoneyBeeez



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Implied Sexual Content, M/M, all this happens after they graduate high school, for the kyouhaba free zine, friends with benefits... until they arent, happy kyouhaba day!!, i dont know how alcohol or bars work... whoops, kyoutani's a vet tech, they both just need to talk. and they dont. how typical of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 09:58:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14952485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoneyBeeez/pseuds/HoneyBeeez
Summary: After the first time, they fell into a pattern, one without words, without feelings. It was hard not to think of them as something. There was nothing between them... right?





	Lovers To Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> hello everybody!! and Happy Kyouhaba Day!!   
> I wrote this for the Beautiful Tension Kyouhaba zine, which you can access for free (!!) right here --> https://kyouhabazine.tumblr.com/post/174935450748/happy-kyouhaba-day-as-some-of-you-may-know-a
> 
> enjoy!!

The first time it happened, Kyoutani was flat-out drunk, nearly passing out with every blink and the world constantly shifting under his feet. He can’t say he even remembers it, not really, but sometimes he wants to. Was the pattern they fell into, the one without feelings, without words, there from the very beginning?

The answers he might find in those blacked-out memories are almost as nerve-wracking as not having any.

Kyoutani didn’t want to say it had anything to do with planets, or gravity, or the two of them orbiting each other, their radii getting smaller and smaller until a collision was imminent. Because that’s a cliché. That’s stupid. That wasn’t them. It would never be them. Yahaba Shigeru was too much of a contradiction to ever be reduced to a planet. He didn’t work like that, and neither did the two of them.

Kyoutani tried not to think about them as  _ something _ .

But it was hard not to, as their planets crashed and conjoined and they, somehow, found a way to survive in the wreckage.

* * *

 

Kyoutani steps out of the bathroom into his seemingly-empty apartment, only to find Yahaba perched on the kitchen counter, phone in hand and thumb flicking at the screen lazily.

“Stop breaking into my apartment,” Kyoutani growls, grimacing at him before marching into his bedroom and fishing around for some clothes that are actually his.

“I’m not  _ breaking in _ ,” Yahaba says, pitching his voice louder so it carries effortlessly through the space. “I have a key!”

“A spare key that you  _ stole _ ,” Kyoutani yells back, tugging the elastic of his boxers so that it slung just below his hips and pulling a shirt over his head.

“There’s no need to yell,” Yahaba says, coy, standing at the doorway and resting a hip on the doorjamb. “And you’ve never asked for your key back, now, have you?”

“Like you’d give it back,” Kyoutani scoffs, turning to look for a pair of sweatpants he can shuck on.

“What was that?” Yahaba says, inching into the room, leaning forward as he does so like he’s straining to hear him. Kyoutani tries ignoring him. “It kind of sounded like you don’t  _ want _ your key back.”

“Go find somewhere else to crash for the night,” Kyoutani says, rooting through a dresser drawer to find some  _ goddamn pants _ .

“You don’t want that,” Yahaba practically croons, a hand coming to rest at the small of his back, dangerously low, “do you?”

Yahaba makes him snap like an old rubber band. By now, the snap should be routine, but it feels like a rift cracking deeper, wider, each time, splitting Kyoutani apart and leaving him aching.

He snaps anyways.

Kyoutani wakes to Yahaba’s arms around him, one tucked under his head like a second pillow and the other thrown across his chest, like Yahaba is scared of Kyoutani running away as he sleeps.

Really. Kyoutani, running away from his own apartment. The thought almost makes him laugh, and he would have, if his bed wasn’t so  _ goddamn _ warm or Yahaba’s sleeping expression wasn’t so  _ goddamn  _ content.

He should have taken the key when he had the chance, before Yahaba started leaving extra clothes in his drawers and a toothbrush next to his own in the bathroom, before there was a precedence of this being okay. Because it isn’t okay.  _ It _ is driving Kyoutani insane.

Nothing has changed, which is what throws Kyoutani off the most. Yahaba is the same as he’s always been, a wall of ditsy smoke masking his intelligence at times and daggers in his eyes and on his tongue during the rest. But now Kyoutani _ knows _ , knows how to walk the line between Yahaba’s extremes, knows what he’s like when he’s just being  _ himself _ .

And, the thing that Kyoutani regrets the most is that, the opposite is true. Yahaba worked at him like he was a lock that needed to be picked, cracking him open and remembering the sequence. Yahaba inserted himself into Kyoutani’s life, and Kyoutani let him, their dynamic settling like a skin graft, apart from him and melding into him at the same time.

The thought of Yahaba settling over the rift in Kyoutani, like a band-aid over a festering wound, makes his chest feel tight. His skin burns where it touches Yahaba, the warmth making him tense and relax at the same time. It’s still relatively new. Comforting. It makes his head spin even though he knows it means nothing.

And that’s it, isn’t it? All of this means  _ nothing _ . Every time the two of them fall into bed, drunk or not, angry or not, lonely or not, they fall with nothing in mind. Mindless; that sums everything up  _ perfectly _ .

Something like acid burns at the back of Kyoutani’s throat, his stomach churning at the thought, and he finally moves, disentangling himself from Yahaba’s grasp. The other mumbles something and curls in on himself as Kyoutani rises from the bed, almost like he was mourning the loss of the warmth that was bred between them. Kyoutani finds his underwear and a pair of sweatpants he failed to find in time the night before, and slips into the bathroom.

It’s early, so  _ fucking  _ early that it’s barely even light outside. But Kyoutani doesn’t dare go back to bed. Going back would be like admitting that he wants the warmth back, that he mourns it just like Yahaba does in his sleep. It was giving into the warmth that caused all this, anyways.

He doesn’t make breakfast. The noise and the smell would wake Yahaba in minutes. Instead, Kyoutani grabs a book from one of the shelves that props up his small TV and lounges on the couch as he reads. He loses track of time as he gets out of his own head, the light filtering through the front window the only indication of time  _ actually _ passing. It’s not long until he hears the telltale sound of rustling blankets from his bedroom.

Kyoutani braces himself as he hears Yahaba shuffle into the bathroom and makes sure he’s turning a page nonchalantly by the time Yahaba lumber into the living room.

“Why didn’tcha wake me up?” Yahaba asks, groggy. He’s wearing one of Kyoutani’s shirts even though the collar slopes unevenly around his neck and despite him having clothes of his own stashed away with Kyoutani’s.

Kyoutani keeps his eyes on his book.

“I’m not your mom,” Kyoutani responds, indifferent, or at least he hopes he sounds the part.

Yahaba hums before mumbling, “Rude.” He clambers onto the couch, making to slot himself between Kyoutani’s legs and slump over Kyoutani’s chest, but Kyoutani knows the movement well. Almost without thinking, Kyoutani lifts a knee, pressing it to Yahaba’s chest. The delay gives him the extra second he needs to roll off the couch, slipping out from Yahaba and getting to his feet.

“What the hell,” Yahaba breathes, sitting back on his heels and looking at Kyoutani with a sleepy, dumbfounded look.

“Gotta get ready,” Kyoutani says offhandedly, putting his book in its place on the shelf before heading back to his room.

“ _ This early _ ?” Yahaba asks, incredulous. “The clinic doesn’t even open for, like, three hours.”

“Spay and neuter day. Gotta prep,” Kyoutani responds, a vague explanation, a white lie. He doesn’t need to be looking at him, or even in the same room as him, to know that Yahaba is sulking.

They’re too close for this, so close that Kyoutani doesn’t know where one of them ends and the other starts. Too close, too warm, too dangerous, and all for nothing. All of this is the worst type of gamble.

With a grit of his teeth and a shake of his head, Kyoutani slips his backpack onto his shoulders and swipes his keys from his dresser.

“Hope everything goes well,” Yahaba offers, his voice still edging sleep but still as soft as his bedcovers. Kyoutani’s chest aches. This has gone on for too long.

He offers a grunt in response as he unlocks the door and leaves. The door slams behind him louder than he meant it to.

* * *

 

When Kyoutani comes back later that night, the apartment is empty. There’s a note on the coffee table, paired with a single, silver key.

“ _ I don’t know what’s wrong but I can take a hint _ .”

The shirt Yahaba was wearing, the one that was actually Kyoutani’s, is nowhere to be found. Goosebumps bloom across Kyoutani’s skin.

It’s cold.

“Fuck.”

* * *

 

It’s over, just like it should have been. They are every bit estranged as they were when they first graduated, before they found themselves next to each other in the low light of a bar, drinking themselves silly, mistaking whatever nostalgia they felt for lust, or maybe even mistaking each other as different people. Kyoutani doesn’t remember, and he guesses he never will, and he guesses that it never really mattered in the first place.

It’s over, anyhow. Yahaba’s gone. His apartment is cold, but he’s gone and it’s over and that’s okay.

Methodically, Kyoutani gathers up the clothes Yahaba left mingling in his drawers and tucks them into the corner of his closet. They’re easily hidden by the multitude of boxes he keeps there, filled with old picture frames and photo albums his parents used to keep and stuffed animals he still loves but feels weird about having around.

Old memories with old memories, fading into the background of the life Kyoutani chooses to live for himself. By himself. It’s better this way, or maybe that’s what he truly wants to believe. But forgetting memories is harder than it looks.

Kyoutani feels Yahaba’s absence like a ghost, draping over his shoulders, chilling the air he breathes, settling like a stone in his stomach.

He thought they were too close, that they went too far, that all of it was nothing, but, without it, without  _ him _ , a space is left open and bare, a hole smashed into a wall he doesn’t have the money to fix, doesn’t have the time to patch up.

Does he want the space filled? Does he want to forget Yahaba and everything he is and isn't and everything that they had between them,  _ whatever it was _ ? One part of him says that he has to. The other says that, if he did, it would be something he would never be able to get back.

Does he  _ want  _ Yahaba back?

He keeps the thought tucked away in the closet of his mind, stashed away with all those memories he refuses to recall.

* * *

It isn’t long before Kyoutani prefers staying within the stony walls of the clinic. Even with its white-tiled floors, blue-tinted white walls, and constant stink of rubbing alcohol, it feels warmer, friendlier, than the confines of his own apartment. Plus, there are the animals that stay overnight, after a surgery or recovering from one sickness or another. They aren’t people, but sometimes Kyoutani thinks they’re better for that, their intentions clear in their actions and without any plans of deception. He spends as long as he can after every shift reassessing each pet, checking their hearts and lungs and teeth, before eventually being shoved out of the building by the vet.

He can’t say it’s better like this, not yet, not when the frigid air of his apartment settles on his skin and leaves him shivering, but it’s better for now and that’s enough.

Time means nothing to Kyoutani, a month slipping by without him noticing, with him trying not to fixate on Yahaba’s note under the potted plant in the kitchen, where he stuffed it because he didn’t have the heart to rip it into pieces the way he wanted to, or keeping himself from opening his closet, because then he would be tempted to pick up Yahaba’s clothes and put them back in his drawers, like any day Yahaba would be knocking at his door and waiting to steal back his spare key--

Getting him out of Kyoutani’s apartment was easier than getting him out of Kyoutani’s head.

On a rare day off, Kyoutani lounges on his couch and reads. It’s only when a draft creeps through his apartment, causing the bathroom door to creak like someone is emerging from it, and Kyoutani tenses reflexively, expecting Yahaba to swagger into the living room, does it hit him.

He’s being ridiculous. Yahaba is  _ gone _ and he’s never coming back and the only thing he can do about it is forget about him.

That’s when Kyoutani resolves that he’s going to live his own life, Yahaba be damned.

* * *

 

The music is thrumming through his bones and his ears are ringing. He orders another rum and coke and the bartender makes it sloppily, but that’s what’s good about it. He sucks about half of it down before looking back at the crowd just over his shoulder. People are  _ everywhere _ , bouncing and grinding to the music, and it would be more enjoyable if he was blitzed out of his mind and not vaguely claustrophobic. Still, it’s progress.

He nurses his rum and coke until the bartender’s free again, before finishing it off and ordering a Kamikaze shot.

As he raises the shot glass to his lips, his eyes stray down the line of the bar, lingering on a familiar face. His eyes widen as he takes in Yahaba, smiling and laughing awkwardly as he talks to someone or other. For a brief second, their eyes meet, and the initial warmth in Yahaba’s eyes fades, the plastered joy still lingering, though, and directed towards that someone.

A wave of…  _ something _ passes through Kyoutani as quick as a blink, and he thinks it’s indignance because  _ fuck Yahaba _ for ruining just  _ another thing _ Kyoutani wanted, waltzing around without a care in the world and breaking down his walls and leaving him vulnerable and then  _ leaving like it never even mattered _ , even if it didn’t matter. Even if what they had was nothing, he should have at least given an  _ explanation _ instead of running like a coward.

A coward. He doesn’t know if that’s what he really thinks of Yahaba, or himself, and maybe it’s just the alcohol talking but  _ Kyoutani Kentarou is not a coward _ .

Kyoutani throws the shot back, swallowing deftly and grimacing a bit as the sour taste lingers on his tongue and burns at his throat. He’s slamming the glass back to the bar and slipping off his barstool in an instant, pushing his way through the crowd and sauntering towards where Yahaba is perched.

He’s still talking, pretending that he doesn’t notice Kyoutani approaching, and it’s only when Kyoutani latches onto his upper arm that he gives him a look. Kyoutani tugs, getting him to stand and turning to make their way out the bar, Yahaba silent all the while.

“What the fuck you think you’re doin’?” the someone Yahaba was talking to asks gruffly, getting to his feet as well and giving him a sneer.

“He’s  _ mine _ ,” Kyoutani growls, teeth practically bared as he glowers at the someone, who backs off. Yahaba gives the someone an apologetic look as Kyoutani yanks him outside of the bar.

“What’s your  _ problem _ ?” Yahaba finally breathes once they’re out on the street, wrenching his arm out of Kyoutani’s grasp, and Kyoutani lets him.

“ _ My _ problem?” Kyoutani spits back, taking a step forward so that their chests were almost touching. “ _ You’re  _ the one who up and left without saying anything!”

“Like I’m the one at fault here!” Yahaba scoffs. “You could’ve texted, or called, but you didn’t even care enough to—”

“What was I  _ supposed _ to do? You threw me away!” Kyoutani yells, not hearing how his voice broke. Instead, he feels his eyes start to itch as Yahaba’s eyes widen. In the split second after his words, Yahaba’s hands slaps Kyoutani’s cheeks, the force of the movement enough for it to sting, before Yahaba pulls him in. Their lips meet ungracefully.

_ Warm _ , Kyoutani thinks in his drunken haze.

“Never,” Yahaba says as they break apart, his hands still pressing to Kyoutani’s cheeks, keeping him close.

It’s the first time that Kyoutani thinks that they can be more than nothing.

Before he can close the distance between them, Yahaba shifts one hand over his lips, the other grabbing at his wrist. Yahaba laughs as he leads him down the street, towards Kyoutani’s apartment, and Kyoutani follows without complaint.

At one point, their fingers weave together, their palms pressing against one another almost like they were supposed to all along. Like the only reason Kyoutani had hands was so that he could hold Yahaba’s like this. Or maybe that’s the alcohol talking.

They push into the apartment after Kyoutani fumbles for his keys and unlocks the door. The door slams hastily behind them, and Yahaba flips the lock for good measure. They fall into bed uncoordinatedly, like they forgot how to, but learning is easy. At least now they can re-teach each other.

“Don’t,” Kyoutani gasps as he lifts his lips from Yahaba’s neck, “don’t pull shit like that again.”

“I could say the same to you,” Yahaba responds, hands reaching up and tugging on his hair.

The last thing Kyoutani remembers is that he finally,  _ finally _ feels warm.

* * *

 

When Kyoutani wakes up, he’s almost tries to write off everything that happened the night before as a dream, but his head was thrumming with a low-level hangover and his lower back aches in a familiar way that he thought he never would have missed and he just… can’t live with the denial he realizes he was grappling with the entire time. 

His bed is empty, but Kyoutani is willing to bet everything he has ever loved that he knows where Yahaba is. 

He finds the pair of jeans he wore the night before on the floor, and he pulls them on before heading to the kitchen. 

Kyoutani nearly laughs as he spots Yahaba perched on the kitchen counter, holding his phone and flicking at his screen lazily, but mostly the sight makes him sigh in relief. Yahaba looks up, his expression living stone as he sets down his phone.

“So, we gonna talk, or are you gonna ignore me again?” Yahaba asks, pressing his palms to the counter and leaning back, looking Kyoutani over like it was the first time he was ever seeing him. 

“I never ignored you,” Kyoutani replies, reaching for a glass to fill with water, when Yahaba grabs at his wrist. 

“No?” Yahaba says slowly, like he was tasting the word. Kyoutani blinks at him. “I at least hoped that the person I was sleeping with would try to make an effort to talk to me, but instead I didn’t hear from them for more than a month. What do you call  _ that _ , Kyoutani?”

“You’re the one who left,” Kyoutani replies, not meeting Yahaba’s harsh glare as he wrenches his wrist away.

“All the more cause for concern!” Yahaba shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “And what about  _ before _ that, huh? It was like you were kicking me without even  _ telling me _ ! So what the  _ fuck _ was that all about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kyoutani responds halfheartedly.

“ _ Yes _ , it does!”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“I  _ want _ to understand!” Yahaba explodes, sliding off the counter and grabbing Kyoutani’s bare shoulders. The contact makes Kyoutani  _ burn _ . “Why do you  _ think _ I spent every goddamn weekend at that bar? I was waiting  _ for you _ . I just want to know what the  _ fuck _ I did wrong!”

“You didn’t do anything  _ wrong _ !” Kyoutani shouts back, brushing his hands off him and taking a step back for good measure. “I just…” he says, before his words die on his tongue. What can he say? What does he  _ want _ to say?

“This better not be one of those ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ moments, because I swear to god I thought we were past that,” Yahaba drawls, decidedly unimpressed as he folds his arms across his chest. 

“What?” 

“High school? Volleyball? Ring a bell?” Yahaba drills, rolling his eyes as Kyoutani continues to stare at him. “We were a  _ team _ . I thought… I thought we still were.”

The hesitation in his voice take Kyoutani aback, sending his thoughts reeling.

“A team,” Kyoutani says, before realizing the words sounded weird coming out of his mouth. He just barely stops himself from scoffing. “A team that just happens to fuck each other every other day. Right.”

“You know what I mean!” Yahaba says, sounding exasperated. “I thought we were in this together--”

“ _ This _ ?” Kyoutani repeats, and he feels a hollowness grow in his stomach. He remembers his drunken thought from the night before, that they could  _ be something _ , and the air in his apartment doesn’t feel cold for once, but that doesn’t matter, does it? Not when there’s nothing behind what causes it? 

“There’s no  _ this _ ,” he says, shaking his head, like he was trying to stop his thoughts from jumbling his words together. “So? We fucked. That doesn’t mean  _ anything _ . You thought  _ wrong _ .”

Kyoutani’s vision slowly becomes unclouded, and he  _ sees _ Yahaba. There’s tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. 

“Fuck you Kyoutani,” Yahaba hisses. “And you know what, here’s a fuckin’ tip,” he stalks forward, jabbing a finger to Kyoutani’s chest; it feels like being stabbed, “stay the hell away from alcohol for the rest of your miserable, miserable life, because apparently you black out at the  _ worst _ times!” Yahaba shoves him, then, sending him stumbling back a step or two. “And apparently I choose the worst people to fall in love with,” Yahaba spits, reeling back to grab his phone off the counter before heading to the door.

Kyoutani can’t count how many times Yahaba’s words run through his head, and he doesn’t really want to. He doesn’t remember darting forward, but before he knows it, his fingers are grasping at the loose material of Yahaba’s shirt and pulling him backwards. 

Yahaba turns on his heel, a scowl carved onto his face, but Kyoutani doesn’t wait to hear what scathing thing Yahaba no doubt has on his tongue. Instead, he cups Yahaba’s jaw and pulls him in. Kyoutani’s kiss is off-centered and only lasts for a second, but, as he pulls away, he learns it’s enough to stun Yahaba.

“You’re in love with me?” Kyoutani asks. He slides the hand on Yahaba’s jaw to the nape of his neck when Yahaba tries to pull away.  

“I wish I wasn’t,” Yahaba says thickly, and at the sound of it, a wave of guilt hits Kyoutani so hard that he’s afraid he might puke. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and means it, leaning forward and pressing his forehead to Yahaba’s. “I didn’t know.” Yahaba lets out a laugh at that, high and bitter. “Can… can we start over?”

“Depends,” Yahaba replies, pulling away and looking Kyoutani over once more. “Are you going to ignore me again?” 

Kyoutani shakes his head.

“You were right,” Kyoutani says, not able to help the smile that tries to pull at his lips. “I never wanted back that spare key.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! please leave me a comment and tell me what you think, and make sure to check out the rest of the pieces for this zine!  
> stay strong, and keep your head up!!  
> love ya!  
> -HB


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